


Daddy Sang Bass

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drunkenness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He patted the wall of his current corridor, leaning against it. "I've got you," he murmured, a totally nonsensical and irrelevant statement, but it was true, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy Sang Bass

Atlantis was different at night. Rodney ghosted down the hallways, too wired to sleep, too exhausted to be productive. He was always like this, after missions as fubared -- oh, the irony of him using that term! -- as this one had been. Dr. Hente, who had gone fully nocturnal to try and deal with all the varying disasters that cropped up regularly, had finally done the unthinkable and glared Rodney out of the lab. He'd argued, of course, but she looked kind of like a female Ronon and when it was late and he was tired he forgot important things like no matter how large or imposing she was -- or good at differential power equations -- she was an incredible klutz. Worse than Rodney's worst reputation, and if she'd tried to hit him, she probably would've ended up hitting _herself_.

But he _was_ tired, mind still back on PX8-334. So he snarked something about Amazons and golden lassos that she definitely didn't understand, and, still complaining, left. His words had trailed off as he walked, though. He didn't bitch when no one was around to hear and acknowledge it, after all.

More than that, though, was Atlantis herself. The hum and steady beat of her was louder at night, not just the constant electrical noise that Rodney heard no matter how pre-industrial the planet he was on. This was a kind of noise that was unique to the city, an almost warbling sound that surrounded him as he walked down empty corridors.

Or maybe like Atlantis was purring.

He patted the wall of his current corridor, leaning against it. "I've got you," he murmured, a totally nonsensical and irrelevant statement, but it was true, too. Atlantis was _his_ , for all she rolled over and begged for Sheppard. Rodney didn't need begging, not when he could make Atlantis sing.

_"I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime."_

For one serious moment, Rodney wondered if he'd stumbled onto some new function of Atlantis' or if telepathy had been perfected without him knowing it. Then he shook his head, laughing a little at his own folly, because if Atlantis started singing? It would _not_ be in a dry, off-key croak that made frogs sound like meadow larks.

_"I wear the black for those who never read."_

It would have to be Johnny Cash, too. How predictable could you get?

Muttering about how some people thought they could do everything well when they were clearly _delusional_ , Rodney headed towards the sound, tracing it through winding corridors until he found a pier that Dr. Whitt, one of the marine experts, thought might be a jetty. They hadn't had time to fully examine it and see if the Ancients had anything even resembling boats -- why sail when you could just _fly_ ; so much more efficient -- and most people had probably forgotten about it.

Not all, clearly.

Rodney had meant to go storming out, demanding that if he was going to be an insomniac he could at least be a _calm_ insomniac, something the singing made impossible -- but he didn't. Instead he stopped, hiding himself in the shadows and watched.

It was Sheppard. He was sitting -- sprawling, really -- on the edge of what was the Ancient equivalent of a rickety, wooden dock, bobbing on the water's surface, legs vanishing into the ocean. He was still signing, about how all things change wherever you go, and an easily recognizable bottle of Athosian cider was gripped loosely in his hand.

In between one verse and the next, Sheppard took a long, long pull of the bottle, making smacking noises when he finally released it.

He was drunk, clearly. Nearly insensate, given the slurred way he shouted _Don't Take Your Guns To Town_ , his entire body swaying back and forth until water sloshed over the edges of the dock. As a conscientious coworker, Rodney really should go down there and rescue him before he slipped into the water and _drowned_ , too drunk to do anything but laugh at his stupidity -- he'd seen Sheppard drunk before. Maybe sober him up and get him back to his quarters so he could be drunk _there_ where no one would see him.

Except... no one was meant to see him here, either. And Rodney wasn't just his co-worker. He wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, and the fractured, incomplete nature of the problem made his mind itch sometimes. But he wasn't just a coworker of Colonel Sheppard's. Wasn't just Sheppard's teammate, either.

And he knew damned well why Sheppard was out there. The same reason he'd spent the last ten hours in the lab.

Slowly, hating how his knees cracked, Rodney settled down in a shadow's corner. Johnny Cash was abandoned for another artist, probably country by the horrendous twang, that Rodney didn't know. It was horrible. No, really, truly _awful_ , and Sheppard clearly had no notion of pitch, let alone key. Or apparently even the _words_ half the time.

But Rodney sat there, watching what he knew he shouldn't, listening as Sheppard got drunker, his singing progressively worse, the songs somehow both raunchy -- as all drinking songs were, eventually, even if the song didn't start _out_ as something to drink to -- and more painful as the minutes went by. 

Sometimes Rodney fingered the bandage over his belly. Nothing serious, really, despite how much he'd bitched at Carson to bandage it up. Eyes half closed while Sheppard caroled his love of pickup trucks to stars that had never seen one, Rodney snorted softly to himself. Complaining was so very efficient. It allowed Rodney to bleed off some of his own fear and pain, but when wielded correctly -- and Rodney, modestly, knew he was a master -- it could do the same for Carson. The man had needed to yell, frantically working from one burn victim to the next, and Rodney had practically _spoon-fed_ him the lines.

"I spoke not a word," Sheppard sang, voice raspy from drink and pain, "thou' it -- thou' it -- _fuck!_ "

 _Thou it meant my life_ , Rodney finished silently. And kept vigil.

He wasn't surprised in the least when Ronon woke him up a few hours later, murmuring, "Your turn, McKay. Can you walk, or am I carrying you like Sheppard?"

He walked.


End file.
